I Was A Kaleidoscope
by cmariek
Summary: Post University. Naomi decides to flip her life upside down, but some things just stick.
1. Boring

**Author's Note: This is my first Skins fic and first time writing in... years. Let me say I have no planned-out plot for this story and am honestly basing it off a sort of current life event. If anyone has any suggestions or input or even just wants to give some pats on the back it's all appreciated and taken in.**

**Leave a review and let me know what you think so far! **

**Side note - I'm American, so bear with the lack of 'English dialec', so to speak.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Skins. I never will.**

* * *

Life is terribly, terribly boring.

Every morning you wake up promptly at 7:06. You turn off your pre-set alarms, grab your pre-set outfit, and head to the restroom for your pre-set toiletries. Brush your teeth for 48 seconds. Apply deodorant 3 strokes under each arm. Grab your keys from the second hook next to the kitchen door, and bike to work.

Your life is terribly, terribly boring.

"Good morning, this is Naomi," you recite this at least fifty times a day, to a number of clients who have heard it every time they've phoned and yet, they still cannot recall your name.

"Naomi, it's Duncan," your nasally boss informs you, "Did you send out the back order report yet?" _Yes, yes I did_, you think. _I sent it at 8:30am just like I have for the past eleven months I've worked here. You even confirmed its arrival via email._

"I did, sir, must not've sent through. I'll resend right away," A pause and a dial tone suffice as your reply.

Eleven months as a customer service representative (though you know with all your side duties, you really are more the office manager) for a chemical supply company claiming to be 'green' and is everything but. That means eleven months of your growing plan to pack up all your shit and move to New York City. Three weeks from now, May 1st, and you and your best mates will be on a plane to the states with nothing but necessities and each other.

And the hope of something more to this terribly, terribly boring life.

* * *

"Mum, I've told you. I'm not interested in London. I'm not interested in fucking Scotland, I'm going to New York City," You have this conversation with Gina almost every other day. You phone her to try and be a good daughter and are gifted with an unwelcomed lecture.

"Love, all I'm saying is to consider your options. New York is so… Expensive. Not that I don't think you can do it, because I know you can, but wouldn't you rather stay close to home?"

"You know better than anyone, Mum, there is nothing for me in Bristol," You hear her audibly sigh in resignation. She knows. She knows and you can feel her mind asking the question she dares not to say.

"Are you going to contact Emily?" She said it.

* * *

On your last day of work you grabbed the two photos from your office – you, Cook, and Effy in your current flat; You and Emily in the same flat, back when it was "ours" and not just "yours". And you leave with your final pay and no fond memories to ponder on your ride home.

You can hear Cook's Mad Caddies record playing through your front door, and no sooner than your bag is slumped off your shoulder, a bottle of vodka is in your hand and the potent smell of spliff strongly in your nose.

"There she is! The woman of the hour!" Cook hands over the spunk and takes a swig from the bottle you picked up. "How was it? Tell the right fuckers off?" His hug is as comforting as it is disturbing, mostly because your face is buried into his armpit and you haven't seen him change his clothes in three days.

"Obviously." You prepare for your big speech, "I said, with a prize winning scowl might I add, 'Thank you for everything you've taught me about this company and upstanding customer service, but most importantly thank you for teaching me the importance of pulling hair." Effy, who had been watching silently from the sofa, shook her head and gave you a knowing look.

Cook releases you from his death grip with a puzzled look on his face. "Blondie, I don't fuckin' get it. You've been waiting practically a year to tell these blokes off and you thank them with some shit line about your fuckin' hair?"

"You didn't let me finish," you move over to the sofa and Effy places herself on your lap, "I learned if you're gonna fuck me in the ass, at least pull my hair!" You finish while Effy helps act out the scene, hair tugging and all.

Cook's laughter lifts all your heaviness. Effy joins in and retreats to her spot at the end of the sofa, giving you a cheers as you both throw back your bottles.

"You didn't say that," Blame Effy and her 'abilities' to know.

"No, I didn't." You head to your room which is both you and Effy's, consisting of a mattress on the floor, a closet of mixed clothes, and the small boxes of personal items you've already packed for the big move. She follows behind and closes the door. The volume in the outside room increases as Cook sings along to 'Leavin''.

"I found this box in the top of the closet," The last thing you want to look at is placed directly in your line of sight, in between your feet you were so deeply staring at, right over the snag in the carpet you were using as an escape to facing the conversation at hand.

"Eff, this is really happening. We're moving to another fucking country. In like, a week. And we've got little to fuck all money and I have no clue how well this job will be and Cook doesn't even have a job and we're all going to be in this musty fucking cramped flat with no privacy and we don't know anyone—"

"We know Emily," She cuts off your rant that was slowly building in anxiety, "We never have any money and Cook never works but still finds money for rent, and we already live in a musty, cramped flat with no privacy. Not much change. And," You hate when Effy looks at you so reassuringly confident, "We know Emily."

That's where she's wrong. _We_ do not know Emily. _You_ knew Emily, up until one year one month and ten days ago when she closed the door to your shared place and, consequentially, her heart. And you have not known her since.

* * *

You all slept most of the plane ride. Then due to jet lag and the drastic change in, well, everything else, you all slept most of your first day in New York City. The apartment is depressingly small: one open space with a breakfast bar and the bare essentials for a kitchen (which will be the living room, dining room, kitchen, and you, Cook, and Effy's bedrooms in one), and a bathroom with cracked tiles and a slight mold problem. But you love it because it's not Bristol and is not filled with the ghosts of your past.

Cook finds a hole-in-the-wall bar the first night. It's about an eight minute walk if you include the time it takes to ascend the six flights of stairs to your new home, and is just dingy enough for the three of you to fit in.

"I believe this calls for a celebration!" Cook's booming energy bounces off the walls of the small dive, "Bartender, me and my two birds here just came all the way from the UK. Whatd'ya says we get some TEQUILA!" He slides back to our table with a tray of shot glasses and I know already this bar will become our second home.

Cook holds up his first shot glass and makes his toast, "To American women!" And we drink to it, though Effy shrugs.

"To paying twice as much for rent and getting half the space!" You're cynical toast goes down with the burning liquid.

"To letting go of the past, or maybe fixing it," Effy's words and stare bore through to your slowly-fuzzing brain and you're grateful to drink as a distraction.  
So, as not to damper the night, you muster up the best enthusiasm you can spare and toast, "To New York fucking City!"

"Naomi?" It's dark, and it's late, and it's a tad loud in the bar, but you know that husky voice in a crowd of thousands.

"Emilio!" Cook is the first of you three to face exactly who you were running from. _To? From_.

And you have to laugh, because really, your life is far from terribly, terribly boring.


	2. Slow and Steady

**Author's Note: I forgot to add this for anyone who saw this chapter within the first 15 minutes it was posted (wishful thinking). **

**First off, thank you all so very much for your kind response and helpful criticism, it is all taken very largely to heart. For guest Nayshay- I did get the reviews! Thank you very much for becoming a fan, as well to TiffanytheTitan.**

**I want to mention that Naomi running into Emily so suddenly is mostly due to the fact I feel with Naomi's cynical attitude and pessimism, the irony of her first day with her "new life" she would run into the one thing she _claims_ she's running from best fits her glass-half-empty life. I feel strongly to Naomi and feel she's the type of person that, no matter what, cannot escape bad luck. Always in the wrong place-wrong time.**

**Anyways, I think updates will be quite frequent, I write from work so I have a fair amount of time almost every day, and when I'm passionate for something as I am for this story, I don't have the will power to hold off writing/posting just to keep some suspense alive.**

**WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, I hope this chapter clears a little of the vague back story and like always please review/favorite/follow etcetc.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own skins. Or the characters. I tweet Kat Prescott every day and I'm not kidding.**

* * *

You have always hated exercise. You ride your bike as transportation and deem that your daily fitness. It's not like you speed, no, you take your time. Slow and steady wins the race.

But in that dirty bar you locked eyes with Emily, excused yourself to the restroom, and walked the fuck out the door. And you sprinted back to your new flat, up all the stairs (pausing only to throw up Jose Cuervo on floor 3) and collapsed onto the hardwood once safely inside.

By the time you've exited the shower Effy and Cook are home. He looks pleasantly smashed and she looks all too sober.

"So, are you going to ask me or should I just come out and tell you everything?" You're not in the mood for Effy's shit, and your stubborn side takes reign so you fire back,

"Am I going to ask you about what, Effy? Did I miss something? Shame I had to leave," She rolls her eyes and sighs and you know that you're not winning this.

Effy sits up straight, leaving her fag on the window sill and piercing you with her icy glare, "She's still doing her internship and has a few photography gigs on the side. She works part-time in that bar busing tables. No, she's not seeing anyone," Your expression softens against your will and she notices the hopeful question shining through,

"No, she hasn't seen anyone. And she misses you. So," she says with a pop to her feet, "I gave her your new number and our address." And as you stand dead still, clad in only a towel, Effy rolls Cook to the edge of his mattress, flicks off her shirt, and goes to sleep.

With your cellphone permanently glued to one hand and a pack of cigs glued to the other, you throw on a jumper and open the window letting the cool night air sweep your face before climbing onto the fire escape. The traffic below never stops, the sounds and energy of "the city that never sleeps" rising up to your flat. Dozens of people pass by, some briskly moving with a destination in mind, some staggering and swaying from the alcohol they probably just downed, some walking slowly, carefully, as if they were looking for something. A sign.

It's not until you're five smokes in and debating on whether or not you should give in to sleep that you see it. The flash of crimson that is so close to the shade you spent hours with your face buried in, just slightly darker, toned down. And the girl pauses as if she feels you there, feels you sitting up high off the side of that building, waiting. She doesn't look up but you can see a pull at the side of her lips. A sad smile, and then she continues on. It's not until she's almost out of sight that Emily glances over her shoulder and you know she knew all along.

Of course she knew all along, Effy gave her your address.

* * *

You and Effy spend the next two days unpacking. It doesn't take long because, really, there's not much to unpack and very little space to put things in. Effy tucks away the small box you pretended you didn't pack.

Cook met a guy in the bar the night before who offered him a job being a pedicab.

"Any chance to give beautiful women a ride with the Cookie Monster," was his cheeky response as he left the flat that morning.

With only five days to 'adjust yourself' to your surroundings and explore before you plunge into your new job, you've found it quite hard to even leave your apartment. The safety of the small space and lack of company has kept you holed up with no intention of exploration. Not with the chance of a certain girl residing mere blocks from you, working mere minutes from your residence, walking mere steps from your front door.

"Naomi," Effy snaps you out of your daze as you stare out the window, "We need to get the fuck out of here. I'm bored. You're boring. Let's go," she slips into her boots and with resignation you grab your jumper and head for the door.

* * *

Though the area is a bit dodgy, you really are pleased with your neighborhood. Learning 'blocks' and 'districts' will be easy and you're relatively close to anything you need. Effy links arms with you and you walk in comfortable silence, breathing in the sun on your face and avoiding the urge to scan every street as you pass. You both stop in a small cafe and buy a coffee and muffin, overpriced and mediocre in taste but you're not picky and frankly any food is good at the moment. Until your phone beeps in your pocket and suddenly everything tastes so very sour.

_:Hello, It's Emily._

Well, you figured. You've had the phone barely a week and have given no one your number except Cook, Effy, and your mum.

**_Hello._**

You're at a loss for words but the thought of not replying at all seems utterly impossible.

_:Care to explain what youre doing in nyc?_

**_Came here to murder you._**

Smooth.

**_Just kidding. _**

_:...Why are you here Naomi? Effy told me you all moved. Why didnt you tell me? I feel I have a right to know youd moved to a different country where I happen to live..._

_**You don't have 'a right' to know anything, Emily.**_

You silence your phone, put it back in your pocket, and give Effy a death glare from Hell. She smiles a consoling smile and just when you think you've gotten off the hook she says,

"I think you should see her, Naomi," taking a fag from your pack and leaving you staring at the table, not unaware of your hand gripping around your phone like it's your life vest.

* * *

"Babe, we just moved across the fuckin' Atlantic ocean and you're pussying out on one pint?" You're done with this conversation. You're angry that your best mate has been conversing with the enemy. Plus, Cook's pep talks were never much pep, mostly just jabs at your dignity. All three combined, it worked.

"Okay, _James_, I'll grab one fucking pint with Emily at her fucking stupid bar down the fucking stupid street. But only to set the record straight. Only to tell her that I came to New York out of a job opportunity and an adventure with my best friends and a change in lifestyle. Not, in any way, for her." My conviction is not believed by either of us.

"...You need fanny," He concluded and texted Emily to inform her of my acceptance.

* * *

_You found the perfect spot. The way the sun shines through your bedroom window and bounces off the tiny rock is beautiful. The moment the bedroom door is open your eyes are drawn to the ring box, the beams of light and flecks of color reflected across the walls and ceiling ever so faintly. A tiny kaleidoscope reflecting the beauty that is your shared life. You know she'll notice it. You know she will say yes. You know this is the moment._

_"Babe?" You hear her close the front door and the familiar thud of her bag on the table. With a final deep breath and your best poker face set, you enter the living space and greet your girlfriend warmly. A nonchalant peck on the lips. Keep your daily routine so as not to cause suspicion._

_"How was it? Last day as a student, officially shoved into the big bad adult world," You sit as relaxed as you possibly can, speak as relaxed as you possibly can._

_There's a glint in her eye and a twitch of her mouth as she holds back a smile. A secretive smile. Fucking shite, she knows._

_"Oh you know, tearful goodbyes and parades of glitter as we walk off campus. Police brutality. The usual," She's smirking and you muster up a chuckle though your throat has closed completely._

_"Remind me to talk to you about something but first I absolutely have to shower," And she's up, heading towards the bedroom, opening the door, standing and you can feel the air disappear from the room._

_"Naomi."_

_She's taken exactly four steps into the bedroom and though you can no longer see her, you know she took only four._

_"Naomi." _

_You sense the hint of panic._

_"Naomi!"_

_"Emily," You clear your throat for good measure. Stand up. Wipe your palms on your jeans. Follow her._

_"Everyday I wake up and I feel panic. Anxiety controls my life, hinders me from doing things I long to do. For years I woke up with the feeling of dread, and I would break and not go to school, blow off plans, hide away. And then you came along," Take two steps from the bedroom door. You're arms length away from her. Her back looks stiff. You can't see her face but you know her vision is set on the ring._

_"Now, if I wake up and feel panic, I roll over and see this beautiful girl," One step. _

_"Who loves me unconditionally. And suddenly, there's nothing to be anxious about. You make me want to do better. I'm not asking to_ _be__ your entire life, Emily, I'm asking you to let me experience your entire life, by your side. I'm ready to be brave," One last step. Kneel._

_"Marry me."_


	3. Knees

**Author's Note: Hello all! So glad you're getting caught up in the story so far. Thank you for all the reviews and words of encouragement.**

**Little note, I had to change the cover photo for IWAK because I was mortified when I noticed Resting On Your Laurels had the same photo of Lily. That's, hands down, one of my favorite fics on here and I didn't want any sort of confusion or competition or _anything_ but to kiss the feet of ROYL so I changed it.**

**I know these chapters have been daily, but coming soon they won't be. I've wanted to get out the back story/set up the main crux of it all, and though I'm afraid it feels a bit rushed, I'll be taking the time to space out chapters pretty soon. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Skins or any characters. Finding Carter is premiering on MTV in 6 days and I've watched every commercial and maybe probably cried each time.**

* * *

_"Naomi," You want to get off the carpet, off of your fucking knee. _

_Instead, you clear your throat. "Marry me, Emily." She doesn't turn around._

_"I need to wash up. Remind me to tell you about something when I get out of the shower." Like you hadn't even spoken, she's gone to the bath. And you're still on your fucking knee._

_After excruciating minutes, the water stops in the other room and you brace yourself. You've relocated to the living space because in the bedroom you no longer saw the bouncing flecks of light as reflecting your shared life but instead, dispersing it. Throwing all love and warmth in every direction but yours. And you could not take that._

_It's only momentarily that you forget your heart is breaking. She's standing in front of the dining table, hair dripping onto her towel and you couldn't be more in love. Until your eyes catch hers and you can physically feel your ribs crack and lungs puncture._

_"Reminding you to tell me about something after your shower," Your words are shaky and weak and any attempt at humor is lost._

_"I've been offered an internship in New York." Her words are, too._

_"Em, that's, that's incredible," Momentary relief. "You are so talented. Just imagine all the opportunities that are going to come up, if they're interested in you in New York then you'll easily find something amazing here!" She shakes her head. You've got it all wrong. You see now._

_"You're taking it." Momentary clarity. "You're going to take it. In New York." _

_She nods. "Naoms, it's for Milk Studios. They're fucking prestigious, I could walk out of there a nationally known photographer, event planner... The possibilities are too much to pass-" _

_"They're fucking pretentious, Emily! They boast of 'culture' and Fashion Week and all that bull shit," You can't tell if Emily's wiping tears or the venom you've no doubt spit into her face. "But what do they really stand for? You always said you wanted to make a difference!" You watched her expression jump from excitement to crushing shame, and all was wiped away for her end result: Fury._

_"I'm taking the internship, Naomi. That's how I'm making a fucking difference. I'm getting out of this dull, half-arsed life we've been living in. I'm done just 'managing'. I'm done just scraping by on our knees for no bigger or better outcome. I'm going. Maybe you're content watching your life, OUR life, fly by and doing nothing about it, but I can't." A response is expected, but you have nothing to say._

_"I love you, Naomi," Her cold rage has been replaced with a comforting defiance and you'd rather the rage came back. "I love you and want to spend my life with you. But not like this. This isn't living." She walks into the bedroom and the small 'click' informs you the box has been closed, diminishing it's light along with yours._

* * *

You try your best to not wear any clothes that Emily has complimented before. You try not to look like you tried. You try not to look like you didn't. In the end, you hate everything you've chosen but can't spend any more time. The standard button up and jeans will have to do.

Cook occupied most of your afternoon with stories of his new job. Basically, he rides around on a bicycle-carriage contraption and charges fare (that he receives a sliver of a percentage) and keeps tips.

"It's fuckin' perfect," You hardly can make out his statement through his goofy grin and mouth full of pizza, "Ridin' around all day, see the city, see the tits. This is the life Naomikins," He lays his head back against the wall, never losing his complacent smile.

"Good for you, Cook, I'm impressed. First one of us all to start work," And you are impressed. You knew his share of bills was going to end up added on to you and Effy, but this effort is unexpected.

"Yeah but you got your fancy job, enjoy your last few days before you're sucked into the man." His wanking hand motion, combined with the pizza he kept waving around, had to make you scoff.

Small redheads aside, you can't imagine a better life experience than this. You, your two best mates, and one of the most famous cities in the world. The last year of your life was spent doing as little 'living' as possible. After Emily had dropped the news and then proceeded to drop you, the fates had been accepted. You were going to live out these mundane, dull, heart broken years in a job you were against, in a town full of memories only good for keeping you down. But your self-destructive way of holding on to Emily paired with the bond you and your mates had since grade school, pulled through.

You used to sit on the web everyday and look at all the apartments available in NYC. Then, as time passed and still no Emily, you stepped up to looking at jobs available. The world she had so easily evaporated into, could include you. Somehow, the notion that you could do those jobs and live in those places soothed your aching heart.

Until one day it didn't. And so to you, the only logical cure was to act upon these fantasies. Sans Emily.

* * *

You couldn't convince Effy or Cook to come along with you to the bar. You knew they were right in saying you needed to go alone but you could not stress how impossible it would be to walk through that pub's door. And it was impossible. It wasn't until three fags, six times touching the door knob, and numerous peeks into the window that Emily opened it for you. Typical.

"Naomi," You hate the way your name sounds coming out of her mouth. "Are you going to come inside? Please." She was calm, she was using her comforting voice that felt so much like home that you fucking hated it for loving it so much. So you do. You flick your smoke into the street, you clench your jaw, and you go inside.

Emily leads you to a table towards the back. There's a sticky water ring on the surface and it gets on your shirt sleeve. Then it's on your fingers from trying to wipe it off of your shirt. Then it's on your pants from wiping your fingers on them and Emily's irritated sigh shows she's sick of your procrastinating.

"I wrote you," It's not a statement or a question, you don't really know why you said it, but you did.

"I know." She's still calm but slightly less comforting.

"You didn't write back. You didn't call. Not once. You disappeared from my life entirely. You ruined my life," You got wound up. You expected to stay calm and act like everything had been a peach since she'd gone. But you didn't.

Like you hadn't even spoken, Emily asks. "What do you plan to do here?"

Like you hadn't even spoken, you answer. "I got a job offer."

"What kind of job?" You can't tell if you heard interest, or maybe a little bit of excitement, or maybe even disbelief, but you heard something that was not calm and collected.

"I was offered a job writing articles for the Humans Of New York." You know Emily reads the daily web posts for HONY. You see the slight smile and the warmth of her big brown eyes and you know she's proud.

"Naoms-" She notices the wince, "Naomi, that's incredible. I'm-" She just breathes in, breathes out, and smiles. You know she's proud.

You can feel your resolve slipping. You're losing to those smooth lips, the permanent goosebumps around her collarbone, the curve of her nose. Stay strong, stay cold.

"Now, you know why I'm here. I want to be clear this has nothing to do with you, I did this for me. Me, Cook, and Effy, and I won't be returning to your bar anymore so please," she's on the verge of tears and you're past that point but you have to stay strong, stay cold. "Please, lose my number. It's a big city, I don't think there's any reason for our paths to cross again." She's crying, and you're crying, and you feel like your heart has been broken all over again, but you stand and leave, and you open the door yourself, and go home.

* * *

You can hear the slow, steady drag of a cigarette and know it's Effy sitting on the fire escape before you even look. So you close the front door, take two deep breaths, and join her.

"Alright?" She doesn't look at you and you're grateful.

Chuckling at how incredibly _not_ alright you are, you light your fag. "Yeah."

"Did you tell her about HONY?" Effy flicks her butt into the alley, and you watch it disappear into darkness.

You nod and light her new fag, already positioned between her lips.

"And did she seem excited? Proud?" You saw it for a second, you saw Emily's loving smile.

"I think. I mean, I dunno, Eff. Why should she care?" You both know that's bullshit. You both know she cares.

Effy sighs, the tell-tale sign before she reveals her wisdom.

"Naomi, when Emily told you about the internship, were you proud of her?" It hurts to try and feel anything but ache from that day, but you know you were proud because, deep down, you still are.

"Of course."

She smiles as a reward for your honesty, "And even though she has to work on the side, you're proud of Emily because she's making herself and you know what she's capable of," There's no point in wiping the tears that have collected under your chin. You don't need to hide from Effy.

"And Emily has always thought you could do anything," There's no point in wiping the tears that have collected onto your shirt collar.

"All she's ever asked of you is to be brave." Eyes like clear blue pools stare into your icy ones, "You're here. You're living _your_ life. You're making something of yourself," You feel the confident truth behind Effy's words pouring into you.

"Naomi, you have been very, very brave." There's no point in muffling the throaty sob that escapes your lips. She continues to look at you and into you with such clarity.

"No more running. You're here."


	4. Open

**Author's note: I had a long weekend with the 4th of July holiday which only added fuel to my fire in writing this. As stated in the first chap's note, this is semi-autobiographical. When I say that, it's with a sort of "foreseeing" into my future, rather than a recollection of my past. Everyday as I write, my personal"moving day" deadline is approaching and relationships with friends/family/lovers are an emotional roller coaster. **

**With that being said, I hope this chapter clears up the who-done-wrong for you all. There's been a bit of speculation on the character's actions and here's my justification. **

**Thank you for all the great reviews and as always your input is wildly appreciated! Enjoy!**

* * *

There's a moment in life when you realize you will never be this young again but this is the first time you have ever been this old. It won't be like a movie, you won't be sitting in a field of daisies or star-gazing off a roof in London. You're standing in your kitchen at 2am on a Tuesday and you understand. You understand that what was your world at sixteen, isn't your world at twenty-two.

At sixteen, your biggest concern was passing school, partying with friends, finding someone to love you. You did all of those things.

At twenty-two, your priorities have changed. You have academic achievement, an appreciation for alcohol in moderation, and a six year long relationship. But it's not enough, because those were the goals of a teenager and you're an adult now and you have no idea who you are, or what you're meant to be.

So it's in your kitchen you understand that Emily did love you, that Emily did want to marry you, spend her life with you. But Emily had her realization. She was no longer sixteen and she needed more. And it was nothing that you could give her because you didn't have that 'moment' yet. She needed to give it to herself.

After one year, one month, and seventeen days, you finally understand why Emily left.

* * *

It's with reluctance that you call her. Swallowing down your stubborn pride (whether you were wrong or not) and in such short time (two days to be exact) has never been your strongest suit.

"Can we go somewhere?" Whether she deleted your number or not, you know damn well she's aware who's calling.

She only asks you where.

"Anywhere."

* * *

You know Effy put your small, but oh so significant box in the linen closet. Second shelf, third item from the wall. For once you're grateful of your height because you wouldn't trust your shaky frame if you needed to stand on a chair to retrieve it. Despite the small size, the heaviness is surprising. Maybe it's your reluctance to go anywhere near, let alone pick up, the box. Maybe it's weighed by the intimacy of the contents inside.

You check your phone for Emily's confirmation. She agreed to meet at your place, since she knows your address already and is more familiar with the area. The address you were given when she left so many months ago was a partial lease and you know she has not lived there for a while. You learnt the hard way when after six months, your letters started coming back to you. And you're not entirely sure you're ready to know where she resides now.

She gives you an ETA of 30-40 minutes, and with Cook and Effy out for a '"night on the town" (they know very well your plans for this evening and have attempted to give you as much privacy as humanly possible), the only thing left to do is open it. Open the box.

_Open the box. _You command yourself. _Open. The. Box._ You retreat to the head of your bed. _Open the box, Campbell. _With trepidation, you manage to switch on your reading lamp and now there is _truly_ nothing left to do but _open the box_.

But you now notice in your voyage from cabinet to bed you're sweating like a whore in church and Jesus Christ, it took an hour and a half to pick out one shirt, there's less than a half hour before Emily is on your doorstep and you need to change again. Like your hands are on fire, you scramble off the bed and sling the box haphazardly back to it's resting place, your shirt already off one arm and halfway over your head. Cursing under your breath you fumble through the piles of clothes, some Cook's, some yours, some Effy's; Mostly Effy's. Groaning at the wreckage, you make a mental note to properly organize your belongings soon. Once a jumper with no significance to you or Emily is found, you throw it over your head and race to the bathroom, checking your phone. Ten minutes left (you assume Emily will be on the earlier side, she always was) and after fixing a few loose curls of your hair you huff in acceptance and head back into the living space.

Your legs grew tired from pacing so much and a few deep breathing exercises later, you feel substantially more calm. From what Effy has told you, Emily is still yours. Well she's not yours, not really, but she's no one else's, per say. For now, that's enough.

With slight guilt you glance at your box, crooked where it sits. That pulls at you wrong so you cross the room to readjust it, a mild compassion for the memories it holds inside. And then the door knocks and all your calm and cool is out the fucking window.

Forcing your feet in place and literally counting, "One, two, three, four," to stop yourself from practically lunging at the door, you finally walk, painstakingly, at the speed of snail to the entrance. Your hand is on the door knob and you have no time for hesitation because you're trembling so bad you're almost positive she can see the handle shaking through the opposing side.

You open it and find Emily looks just as, if not more, nervous than you. She's in her casual hoodie and jeans but you can tell. The stray hair that _always _sticks up (unless purposefully groomed down) is combed in place. She tried to look like she didn't try - but you know. And from her footing you can tell she was about to walk away. _Wouldn't be the first_, you push aside the troubling thought. Not now, not tonight. You need to be open.

"Hi."

"Hi yourself," Her crooked smile momentarily replaces the floating nerves and you find yourself smirking at the familiar phrase you've heard so many times in your life.

"Well, come in," You move out of the doorway and can sense her hesitation. But she obliges, taking a few steps and waiting until you've closed the door behind her.

"It's a tad smaller than the old flat," Your attempt at polite host-talk is rubbish and you didn't plan on mentioning something you both shared, literally, so quick upon her arrival. "But I'm sure you're accustomed to New York's small living quarters."

It came out with a hint of sass and you didn't mean to, but Emily brushed it off, stopping her wandering eyes only to look back at you and smile a polite smile.

"Anyways, me and Effy sleep on that bed and Cook crashes on the couch," You feel the need to gesture to the heap of clothes, "As you can see we haven't done much organizing, sorry," She looks back and gives you the same acknowledgement.

It strikes you as cold and wrong and your mindless rambling isn't getting you anywhere.

"Emily."

"Yes, Naomi." So cold and calm and closed off. You hate it. Not now, not tonight. Stay open.

"I'm not a stranger. Please, talk to me?" You hope she feels the plead in your voice. You know she's only doing what you told her to do, she's pretending you never existed. She's pretending there was never an "us".

Her fake grin and empty eyes falter and you know the game is over.

"Why did you call me, Naomi? I thought you said to lose your number," You've always crumbled at the sheer ferocity the tiny girl could produce.

"I did. I did say that. But I've said a lot of things, Emily, a lot of things that I didn't mean," She's still and unreadable, a security wall built so high you can't see over.

"I've also said a lot of things I did mean. And a few things I never said, that I should have," Brown eyes soften and you can feel a crack in the wall appear, swelling you with confidence. Your final step in taking the plunge.

"I never told you how absolutely proud of you I was; I am. Or how every one of your photos strikes a new emotion in me that I didn't know existed before. I never told you that I would follow you to the end of the Earth," You have to pause to compose yourself. Emily is crying and all that stands between you now is the rubble of the broken barricade you finally penetrated.

"I couldn't tell you that then because I didn't understand. You didn't want me to follow you, you wanted me to join you," You hear her sob but it's not time to comfort her yet. You're not finished saying what you need to say.

"I didn't understand back then, Em, but I do now. I get that you needed to be all that you possibly can be and Bristol wasn't giving that. I wasn't ready." She's nodding, unable to speak, and you can see the relief in her eyes knowing you finally see. "Now I've felt it, that need for more. I meant what I said when I said I didn't come here for you. Please don't take that wrong, I can't try and pretend you aren't a part of it. But I had my moment, Ems. I needed more. And here it is." You're sighing like you've just dropped a ton, the weight of everything off your shoulders. The tears flow freely, and then slow, and you both stare into each other's faces - A face you've spent so many nights memorizing, then dreaming of, then missing.

"So, where do we go from here?" The unsure quaver in Emily's voice brings you back to the matter at hand, "I'm so sorry for everything I did, and I know I can't expect your forgiveness. I'm just so grateful you understand, at least a bit, where I was coming from. But I get it if you don't want me in your life still..." She looks so small and vulnerable and the positive energy you'd released onto yourself only makes her look more weak.

And although you've played this scene in your head time and time again, your anger fueling your words as you tell her to fuck right off, slamming the door in her face and brushing your hands off as you walk away humming a tune, you know that is not what you want. It never was.

A smirk forms as you rock back on your heels. "Well," She looks a little confused, a little scared, and a little annoyed at your cocky change of attitude.

"You have a lot of explaining to do. Let's start from the beginning, shall we?" You plop on your bed and motion for her to follow, wiping her tears as she chuckles and agrees. Things aren't perfect and you don't know if they ever will be again. And everything is far from fixed. But having Emily so close you could touch her (though you won't) and finally hearing what happened in that year that you've missed will suffice. For now.


	5. Friends

**Author's Note: Hello all! Did any US readers watch the Finding Carter premiere? I'll admit I don't care for MTV and though the shows plot is interesting I truly am only in it (and boy, am I in it) for Kat Prescott. Total switch of character than Emily, BUT so, so... unf. Sigh. Moving on!**

**I'm lacking much fire right now but like I said last A/N, currently my life is a massive roller coaster. And so far this story has managed to give me a simple out, so I'm trying to build up that motivation for the sake of my sanity. And, your reading pleasure.**

**Who doesn't love a little karaoke?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Skins but that didn't stop it from ruining my life.**

* * *

You listen with open ears and watery eyes as Emily attempts to explain. She tells you about her creeping depression, her itch to do more, and reassures that your committed love was never the issue. You make a point not to argue about anything - there's no reason anymore. What's done is done, though the pain of reliving it all feels as fresh as ever. And it feels good, for once, to not fight. You've been fighting your entire life, practically left the womb swinging fists. You grew up with your mother fighting against human injustice, you fought against the 'norm' of the teenage society, you fought against a small red headed girl when she kissed you in a tree house at age 12, then again at 16 at a slumber party, then never entirely stopped. And, really, it always felt much better to let that tiny girl win.

So you take this time to look at Emily; really look at her for the first time in, what feels like, forever. Her warm eyes, though slightly red and puffy from crying, still hold the glimpse of a light you know is reserved for only you. The darker, duller crimson that her hair has changed to - you do like it, though it feels like a sentiment of your break up in itself - the vibrant red your hands spent so long tangled in, your face buried in, your shower drain clogged with, replaced like everything else in Emily's quest for a new life. She looks more toned, no doubt from walking everywhere. You question if she still loves the simple things. If she's curbed her guilty pleasure for sweets. Maybe she hasn't found a shop that makes pastries to her liking. Maybe she can't afford the luxury of sweets on any occasion. Then you remember this is Emily you're talking about, and she would choose chocolate pudding over a balanced breakfast any day.

It's not until your eyes trail upwards and meet her mischievous smirk that you realize you've been blatantly gawking.

"What?" You can feel your face flushing and can't help but be defensive, especially when she has that, fucking irritatingly attractive, smug grin plastered on.

"You were perving," Emily isn't put off and for the first time tonight you forget that persistent pull at your chest and play into her sly, subtle advance.

"Don't flatter yourself, Fitch. I was trying to figure out what Americans are putting in their pudding - look a bit round there,"

She feigns insult and swats your arm and finishing her, _"Fuck off!",_ You hear it. That throaty, open laugh that leaves your ears ringing and swells air into your lungs. A laugh that only the likes of Emily Fitch could produce - so pure and unguarded. You used to live for that laugh. As it dies down and Emily plays back into her mock offended stance, she cocks her left eye brow (which is so, unfair, because she knows you're a sucker for that) and says,

"Well? Do you have something to say to me, Naomi?"

And you're trapped, like always, under her spell - so the truth comes out.

"You look good, Ems."

She visibly softens at your words, at your nickname, and you watch her swallow it all.

"Thank you. You look good, too," She clears her throat, "Can I ask you something?"

She could ask you anything and you'd probably say yes. Or no. Whichever was the answer she wanted to hear.

"Sure."

"...So, now really, where do we stand?" She's anxious not to cause a wave in your light moment, but you knew she would ask again, eventually. And though it may not be _exactly_ what she wants to hear, you offer all you think you can handle at the moment.

"I refuse to let you walk out of my life again, Emily. But I can't say what will happen down the line - even just tomorrow. I hope you understand," She nods.

"For now, I think it's safe to say, we're friends." And you try to smile a reassuring smile, and she tries to return the gesture.

"Friends," She breathes out the word in one exhale, as if she needs to clarify for herself - for acceptance.

"Okay. But, you owe me a drink for calling me fat. Besides, it's Karaoke Night." And she's up off your bed and pulling on her trainers ignorant to your protesting scoff. But you, as you always have, follow suit and slip on shoes.

* * *

You walk in a comfortable silence to the bar Emily part-times at. It's only 9:30 but you know Effy and Cook are probably there, Cook never being one to turn down drunk singing. As soon as Emily opens the door you can hear him howling (literally) to 'Werewolves of London'. With one final, skeptical glance at Emily and her returned chuckle and playful eyebrow wiggle you shuffle into the dim lit room and spot Cook. On his knees, one hand gripping the mic and the other in a fist punched into the air. Avoiding that at _all_ costs, you scoot in next to Effy at the bar while Emily says hello to one of the barkeeps at the opposing end.

"Thank fuck that's over," She greets you, downing what looks and smells to be a Johnny Vegas.

"So." Effy turns to you after eyeing Emily, who currently is being chatted up by a very old, very drunk man, from the looks of it a regular of the bar.

"So?" As always, it's not enough for Effy, but you don't exactly have time for a play-by-play so you purse your lips and say,

"Friends."

"For now." She retorts.

Emily says her goodbyes to the man and is heading your way. You flag down the bartender and, giving Effy a pointed look that she knows means _leave it_, you order two Angry Orchards. _  
_

Emily's made her way next to you as the beers are set.

"My favorite," She smirks. Effy smirks. You roll your eyes. By a stroke of luck Cook returns from the restroom, a sheen layer of sweat on his forehead, and wraps you and Emily under each arm.

"Emilio! Naomikins! Shit, been a hell of a time since I've said those two names together, eh?"

It has been a long time and it's uncomfortable to hear him say, let alone being smushed under his pit with Emily mirroring you. But you have to admit you're grateful for Cook's presence. Spending your night stuck between All-Seeing Effy and Emily Fucking Fitch sounded about as painless as pulling teeth. Cook's oblivious mannerisms (or his facade of it, because you know he's much smarter than he lets on) should bring some cheer, or in the very least, cause a distraction from the tension.

"Cook, do you mind?" You wrestle yourself from his grasp and he releases Emily as well, but not before ruffling both heads of hair.

"Aw, c'mon Blondie, can't you see the Cookie Monster's just 'cited the gangs all here? Now let's get fucking mental!" He howls again, just for good measure, and Emily orders a Johnny Vegas for everyone.

After gulping the tequila infused drink like water Cook slammed his glass on the table.

"Nuh uh, enough of this pussy shit. I've got some ripe shit that'll make your teeth feel like fuckin' clouds," He shakes a small baggy between his thumb and index fingers and you groan, audibly, because the last thing you need is fucking pure MDMA. Even if some of your best memories with this group are tripping off your ass.

"Cook, we're not fucking seventeen anymore, I'd prefer to not go to jail my first week in the US."

"Fine! Fine, I was tryin' to be a gentleman. It's just nice to see you out the flat, babes, not all mopey since well - her," He points so obviously at Emily and you're glaring, and blushing, and wondering why you thought his incognizance was going to benefit you.

Thanking Christ, the tension is brushed away with Effy's loud declaration for more shots' arrival and Cook's habitual howl._  
_

* * *

"There is no fucking way I'm getting up there and singing."

You may be drunk - okay, right hammered - but you still have enough wits in you to not sing karaoke. Cook, on the other hand, has sang three songs. And broken two chairs. If it weren't for Emily's connection you're fairly certain you'd never be allowed back in.

"Well, I fucking will!" And Emily's up and giving the DJ her request song. Your fuzzy eyes can't help but watch her as she leans over his booth, the way her jeans sit just right on her hips, the dimples on her back that peek from under her sweater when she leans a certain way.

But all it takes is Effy clearing her throat to bring you back, wringing the back of your neck to try and alleviate the goosebumps that have risen.

"Friends," She accuses.

"Shut up."

You're drawn to Emily walking onto the stage as the familiar chords start. And you have to chuckle, though it feels like someone just stuck their finger in the gaping wound you call a heart.

* * *

_"This is my song!" You can't remember how many times she's said that since you've started driving. But, as with every other time, Emily cranks up the radio and starts drumming on her knees._

_You're prepared for the big build up, because she can't resist when it comes to this song, and as expected, you're not let down._

_"Ooooh Darlin!" She shoots you a sly look, eyes squinted and lip curled into a snarl. You roll your eyes, but mimic the slide guitar sound, which awards you with a gleaming smile for your participation._

_"Please believe me!_

_I'll never do you, no harm," You can't help but laugh at her exaggerated movements, sassy 'nuh-uh' finger waggle and all._

_"Oh, believe me when I tell you,_

_I'll never do you, no harm," Emily takes the next verse to air drum on her knees, on your knees, on the dashboard, on her stomach. When the Flash Dance - Tina Turner - running in place (which she's perfected inside of a car) begins, you know she's decided to go full out._

* * *

"When you told me!

You didn't need me anymore,

Well you know! I nearly broke down, and cri-i-i-i-ed,"

She's drunk. You're drunk. But fuck, she's the cutest thing you've ever seen.

"When you told me!

You didn't neeeeed me, anymore,

Well ya know! I nearly broke down,

and di-i-i-ed,"

Emily finishes by falling to her knees, head kicked back with the mic pointed towards the fucking heavens. Cook's cheering, Effy's actually smiling - a genuine, whole hearted smile - and you feel like you're going to puke. It's all too familiar - the warm feeling in your chest, the smile you can't quite wipe off your face, the lack of oxygen surrounding you. It's all too, fucking, familiar. So instead, you let the mouth sweats take over your senses and high tail it to the restroom.

* * *

"I'm fine, really," It almost sounds believable, if you ignore the slightly drawn out syllables.

"Naomi, shut up, and walk up the fucking stairs, okay?"

Cook and Effy left it to Emily to bring you home after your little spew-fest. You make a mental note to rub your puke-y mouth on their bath towels as punishment.

"Emily, there's _so many fucking_ stairs," You know you're practically dead weight already but somehow she's managed to drag you up two flights thus far.

"Dad would be so disappointed in you," You groan at the mention of any Fitch parent, though you always did have a soft spot for Rob.

"I'm not getting fucking fit - or fitched - or anything that starts with an F, thank you very much." ...It sounded much more clever in your head.

"Okay, Naoms, whatever you say." You've stopped moving forward and your eyes are squeezed shut, but that doesn't avoid you hearing her heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry, Naomi, I-"

"It's fine. It's fine. I'm fine from here, thank you."

"I'm sorry." But you've maneuvered off of Emily's side, finding support in your drunken stubbornness, and are trudging up the stairs without her.

"Let me help you, please?"

You don't turn around, you probably can't afford to stop moving in order to make it to your flat on your own,

"I don't need your help, Emily. I do fine on my own."


	6. Firsts

**Author's Note: Hello everyone! This chap may be small(er than usual) but honestly I'm at a bit of a wall right now. I wanted to get something out to you this week, though, so don't hold it against me.**

**Today is my girl's birthday and my big ol' 21st is in three days, so there's my inspiration. **

**As always your reviews fuel me and are mucho appreciated! You're all lovely. Enjoy!**

* * *

You'd successfully avoided too much interaction with Emily after your drunken fit, starting your job with HONY and claiming to be 'swamped'. And at first, you were. But a week and a half and three blown off dinner plans later, the guilt took over and you agreed to Trivia Thursday at the bar. But not without dragging Effy and Cook along with you.

"Is there a prize or somethin'?" Cook didn't understand why anyone would want to test their knowledge _just_ for fun.

"Jesus Christ, Cook, I'll buy you a fucking pint if we win," You were struggling to lace your boots, well aware that Emily was planning on meeting you all there in ten, while Cook sat shirtless, pants unbuttoned. Obviously not ready to walk out of the door at any second.

"Two pints. 'N a round of me good friend Jose for everyone." Cook challenged. He took full advantage of your rush, as well as determination to not be alone with Emily, so you caved.

"Fine, fucking - Fine! Can we please go? Eff?" You called out into the small apartment. The amusement on Cook's face only fueled your irritation. Effy sauntered out of the bathroom, no care in the world, and jingling the house keys between her index finger and thumb, headed straight for the door.

"Let's go, bitches, Emily's waiting."

* * *

"How many bones are in the human body?" Emily had failed to mention that she would be reading the first round of questions. Needless to say, you were struggling to focus on the answers.

You quickly jotted down '206' to your answer sheet. Effy smoked lazily, rocking back in her chair with her foot resting against the corner of the table. Cook, never missing an opportunity to be a perv, leaned into your ear and mumbled, "Want one more?"

"No, James, no one wants your puny pricker." Everyone's eyes shot to the small girl at the mic, and Emily smirked. When her playful eyes caught yours, she winked. And you undoubtedly turned eight shades of red.

"Aww, sticks and stones, Emilio, sticks and stones!" Cook was balancing back in his chair, no care to the amount of looks the entire establishment was giving him.

Emily finished the first round of 15 questions, you audibly sighing in relief as she announced where to turn in the answer sheets.

"Muff-Diving Mayhem? That's the group name? Really?" The amused look on Emily's face as you turned in your card did nothing to ease the blush creeping up your neck. Rolling your eyes you fan your arm over to your mate, who was watching giddily and practically fell over in his chair, hysterically laughing, as you flick him off.

Scanning your card's answers, Emily chuckled.

"Jesus Noami, I forgot how shit your handwriting is."

Mocking offense, you struck a hand up to your chest, "Hey! I'll have you know, it's scientifically proven people with messy handwriting are naturally more intelligent. Something about their brain constantly moving so fast with, I'm sure, insurmountable knowledge, that their hands can't keep up."

"I think your hands do just fine." Emily mused under her breath.

You almost missed it, almost. But you didn't, and suddenly the alcohol you promised Cook was a must, regardless if your team won or not.

"Right, well," You start to back away, your words fumbling sloppily like your handwriting. "Tequila, anyone?" You turn your back to her and her pursed lips, her devilish eyes.

"Fuckin' right!" Cook bellowed as you approached.

* * *

You have always hated your birthday.

Or, you have always said you hated your birthday. In all actuality, you found _saying_ you hated it sparked people to try and change your mind. Thus, occupying your 'special day' with fun activities meant to make you reconsider. But for the past five years you've loved it. Because Emily always was one for a celebration.

For your seventeenth birthday, before you and her became, officially, an "us", Emily recruited your college crew (and Gina) and decorated the back lawn with a kiddie pool, a make-shift slip-n-slide, barrels full of water balloons, and alcohol. Lots of alcohol.

It was the first birthday you ever had friends at your house.

The eighteenth birthday everyone took you to The Spotted Cow, and that's about all you can remember. Besides waking up in your room, head resting inside of your mum's crock pot, a layer of vomit stagnant at the bottom. And Emily naked next to you.

It was the first birthday you received Birthday Sex. Even if you don't exactly recall it.

Your nineteenth birthday you, Effy, Cook, and Emily rented a hotel and went to Thorpe Park. Thinking back, this birthday was your most sober, at least from 8am to 6pm. Until you paraded through bars up to the early hours. This time, you made sure to manage your alcohol consumption. And you remember exactly how it felt to have your head resting inside of Emily's thighs. Cook ended up with his head resting inside of a hotel trash bin.

It was your first birthday spent away from home.

For your twentieth you had to work. And when you came home, Emily had decorated the flat with streamers and balloons, dim lights, champagne, and chocolate covered strawberries.

It was the first birthday you two spent together. Just the two of you.

And the twenty-first, well, you spent that alone. Emily had just recently fucked off, but managed to convince Effy to deliver her present. You drank two bottles of wine, smoked all of Effy's spliff, and cried yourself to sleep holding the 1974 copy of The Little Prince. And if it wasn't your favorite book, and such a one-of-a-kind, you would've burned it.

It was the first birthday you absolutely hated. And the first time you absolutely hated Emily.

So it should have come to no surprise when Emily called you at work, asking about your plans for Saturday. As usual, you played off the day like any other casual weekend. And in reality, you didn't have plans. The only people you knew in New York were office acquaintances, and Emily.

"I'm taking you out tomorrow."

You glance at the clock on your laptop. Still 37 minutes left until 5 o'clock, and you'd already wasted an hour and a half sitting at your desk, scrolling aimlessly through local blogs.

"Naomi?"

Registering the voice on the other end of your phone, you decide, _why the fuck not_. And let yourself go, just a little, for the sake of your birthday.

"Only if I get to take you out tonight."

You can practically hear Emily smiling through the line.

"Deal."


	7. Firsts Pt2

**Author's Note: I felt really crap about just how short that last chapter was, so we're going to call this a pt.2. Know that I am trying! The chapter after this, hopefully, will be very long. **

**I want to shout out to TiffanyTheTitan for always reading and reviewing, you've been my continuous push just by supporting and being a loyal reader****. So thank you thank you thank you.**

****SPOILER ALERT TO ANYONE WHO HASN'T SEEN RUBY SPARKS!** Though, it came out in 2012 so really I'm not too concerned. It is a great movie, y'all. If you're into that kinda stuff. Which I am.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Skins but we like to use oils together.**

* * *

Popcorn. That greasy, buttery smell, to you, has always been a trade mark of the cinema. You glance over at Emily, who is already eyeing the candy selection from across the building. You weighed your pro's and con's about where to spend time with her tonight: The park offered too little entertainment, leaving too much availability for discussion. It also had too many shaded trees, gazebos, lakes - all places you two used to rely on for privacy. You, also, were learning that alcohol mixed with Emily's presence typically resulted in either, you frustrated and crying, or you masturbating in the shower. Usually, both. So you decided against a bar.

The movies sounded like a decent choice. Not a place to talk, so you wouldn't have to worry about that, and you knew from experience Emily was never a _'sit-in-the-top-row-and-snog-all-night'_ type (give or take a few occasions). But what you didn't factor in, was the flood of memories when you smelt that fucking artery-clogging popcorn. Or the way Emily didn't muffle her laughter in the theater, regardless of people's irritated shushes. The way her face took on the emotion of the actor in the scene; lips pulled into a slight frown or a seductive smile - Specifically in any movie with Mila Kunis. How terribly difficult it would be to sit fractions away, elbows brushing on the arm rest, knees bumping when she shifts in her seat, taking turns with hands in the popcorn bowl.

You manage to ease up a bit when you see the theater is practically full. An army of citizens on standby to keep the shenanigans at bay. You've always hated people's habit of standing in the entrance and gawking until they found a seat, and Emily knows that, so without hesitation she grabs your wrist and pulls you into the middle row of two-seaters on the far left of room. You opt for the isle seat, claiming the need for extra leg room. And everything is smooth sailing, even when a minor popcorn fight arises from you tossing one piece into Emily's hair.

Ruby Sparks was not the best choice in films.

You loved the movie, from an artistic point of view. Emily loved it from the romantic point. And though the ending was meant to seem 'happy', what with fresh starts and all that, the crux of it all was uncomfortable to watch. To watch two people, meant to be together - obviously - but wanting different things and controlling certain aspects of each other's lives and trying to pluck out the bad puzzle pieces and replace them with ill-fitting ones. The inevitable truth that, no matter how perfect someone may be, things can end. Well, it all felt a bit too personal.

Emily cried when Calvin revealed to Ruby that he created her. You sat silently while she wiped snot on her jacket.

And then you did something, and you're still not sure why. You placed your arm over the back of her chair. As an offer of comfort, of understanding, of fucking _whatever you were thinking_, and Emily looked at you, and smiled. A teary eyed, stuffy nosed, smile. Of course, you smiled back. And she comfortably shuffled in under you.

Once the credits rolled and everyone hurried down the isles, you removed your arm from it's position around her. She lifted from her relaxed lean against you, and said,

"That was nice."

And you smiled, replying, "Yeah." Because it was. That was the truth.

As you two walked out of the dark theater and back towards your flat, Emily checked the time on her phone, and as you approached your block, you knew what was next.

"Happy Birthday!" She exclaimed, and when she threw her arms over your shoulders hugging you, you didn't flinch. You just smelt the strawberries and cream shampoo you'd grown to love over the years, a faint whiff of lavender mixed in from her clothes.

"Thanks, Em." But you weren't loosening the embrace. When you felt her weight shift, her head lift slightly off your shoulder and her breath hitch right next to your ear, you simply closed your eyes. It wasn't until her lips were pressed against your cheek that you forced yourself to breathe. And then, in an instant the warm, soft skin you often dreamed of was gone.

"I should, uh - I should head in," It seemed an appropriate time to unlock your hands from Emily's waist. The chill outside raising the hairs on your arms. At least, you pretend it's from the weather.

"Right, no of course," Emily was always quick to mask disappointment. But you could never miss the split seconds where the glint in her eye dulled.

"Are we still on for tomorrow? Or, later today, I suppose?"

"Of course. Do I get to know what we're doing?"

"Nope," Emily's glint was back, cheeky as ever. You squinted your eyes, smirking and pointed a finger down onto the smaller girl.

"No funny business, Emily Fitch. I know you, you have an itch for trouble," Her smile widened and she bit her bottom lip.

"Who, me?" She mocked in a southern belle, American accent. Emily always loved imitating Americans, usually quite over-dramatic. And you always loved when she did.

"Yes, you!" Your laughter was calm, and when she broke her act, automatically pulling her bottom lip in under her teeth you could feel your heart skip a beat.

"No promises. Goodnight, Naomi," And as Emily turned her back, leaving no time for any more embraces or further physical contact, you allowed yourself to exhale. For a brief second, you thought you smelled the strawberries and lavender trailing behind the girl as she turned the corner of the street.


	8. Twenty-Two

**Author's Note: So very sorry for the delay in posting, but I'll admit until today - this chapter just wasn't coming to me. Because you all so patiently waited, I've gifted with a little ... somethin' somethin'. All I can say is - Holy sexual tension, Batman! **

**Thank you for the kind reviews as well as birthday wishes! I'm going to blame my lack of update on being freshly 21 - though I will admit I've strolled into this new adulthood at a relaxed pace.**

**So as it goes, please enjoy and review and favorite/follow/etc. because it all makes my heart swell, just a little, more.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own skins but I'd take it's last name.**

* * *

You wake up at 7am, but out of sheer stubbornness stay in bed until 9:30. Emily texts you at 7:30, 7:45, 8:00, and 9:10 (you assume she gave up her strict 15 minute regime to take a shower) to try and wake you, and you reply with a nonchalant, **_Whats up?_ **after showering at 9:45 as if it were any other Saturday.

_:Get up you lazy cow! We dont have all fucking day!_

You smirk because Emily is probably fuming at the precious minutes you've so haphazardly wasted.

_:Oh and Happy Birthday! ;)_

Of course, your will power against her was never very strong and even a virtual wink gets you into motion, mentally berating yourself for being such a sap.

You remember you have no clue where you're going, and with the city's vast opportunities you could be doing _anything_, so rather than risk wearing the wrong attire and having to retreat home to change (and most likely set impatient Emily off like a ticking time bomb) you give up this act of Birthday-Denial and find out.

_**What should I wear on this mystery day?**_

_:Um..._

_:Clothes? Normal clothes?_

You can imagine the look of puzzled irritation on Emily's face, one you know well, that says 'You are a fucking idiot, Naomi,' but you're startled out of it by your phone ringing in your hand. **_Emily. _**shows up on the caller ID.

You're quick to answer and rush into the bathroom before it wakes your sleeping roommates.

"Hello?"

_"I figured I needed to call you because, no offense, you'll mess this up," _

You scoff but Emily doesn't stop long enough for you to protest.

_"It's going to be slightly overcast so bring a jumper of some sort - light but not too light - just in case. Oh, and we're going to do a fair bit of walking so don't wear those bloody Oxfords, you'll get blisters," _

You wonder if she can feel your silent smile. You think you can feel hers.

_"And for God's sake, Naomi, do **not** wear those plimsolls with the hole in the bottom." _

You have to laugh out loud, dropping the aforementioned shoes.

"Are you sure you're not stalking me?"

You hear her chuckle as if she just _knew_ you were holding that pair as she spoke.

_"You are very stalkable. But no."_

You pretend not to hear the sultry rasp in Emily's voice.

"Naturally. Right then, where do I meet you in this classy-yet-casual wear?"

_"I'm outside. See you up there!"_

"Wha-" But the line is dead. And your hair is still dripping and uncombed, your make up smudged at the corners of your eyes, and one sock on, one sock off.

"Well, fuck."

* * *

"Are you _still_ hungry?!"

You see Emily eyeing the pastries in the tiny cafe as you walk past.

"Em, we just had breakfast. Like, literally fifteen minutes ago. We've made it two blocks away and you're hungry _already._"

She shoots you a death glare, only briefly taking her eye off the giant cinnamon bun. You know she can't resist those.

"Alright, in you go."

You shuffle her around, heading back towards the front door, her feeble attempt at protesting only slightly masking her excitement.

"Don't blame me for taking extra stops on your birthday, blame the endless pit that is my stomach," She pats her stomach for emphasis.

"I know, I'll try not to hold it against you," Emily is bypassing customers still debating over the menu, and you have to weave around a bit to stay caught up to her.

"Didn't expect this place to be so busy!" In fact, you've never even noticed this little dive. She just looks at you and smiles in acknowledgement.

"They're always busy, best fudge around! Well, around this part anyways," And she's handing you a sample piece of fudge she managed to swipe from the counter. It's straight chocolate and you audibly moan before you can catch yourself. The tips of Emily's ears turn pink, you notice before she turns back to the register.

"Good, huh?" Again, with the sultry rasp.

"Very."

* * *

After Emily scarfed down a gigantic cinnamon roll, and you gave into her offer of a small box of fudge, she leads you back out to the village and towards a subway entrance. Though you've taken the subway a few times, the whole concept is still a bit shaky to you and frankly, you'd prefer to walk or bus; hail a cab if necessary.

But, as always, you'll follow Emily wherever she leads. She senses your trepidation and slows her pace down the stairs, smiling up at you and naturally, your nerves calm just a bit.

"Emily, since we'll probably end up dying down here anyways, mind telling me where we're going?"

"Well, if you must know, we're going to take the 6 train to 51st street, then transfer to E or M, which should be one stop to 53rd and Fifth Avenue."

You blink a few times, dead pan, because _what the fuck did she just say?_

"Alright, the only thing that registered faintly familiar was Fifth Avenue. Please tell me we're not going shopping at those corporate, bourgeois shops?"

She chuckles and rolls her eyes, "Naomi, I think I know you well enough to not take you fucking _shopping_ for your birthday. Now hurry up, we're going to miss the train."

Without thinking, Emily grabs your hand to tug you along. And you think, _maybe, just this once, this is okay. For directional sake._

* * *

You exit the subway at 23rd street and walking to 21st, you recognize your surroundings. Just a few things here and there - landmarks really. You notice the banners hanging from street lamps: Radio City Music Hall and MoMA. And then you know, that must be where she is taking you.

She knew where to take you because back when you were in college, back in Gina's house, stolen kisses and hushed whispers in your bed, Emily took great notice in your wall art. Pages from magazines ripped out and taped up, art of all different cultures and Depression-era propaganda cluttering the pale yellow space. When she wasn't memorizing you (which she was a solid 89% of the time), Emily was memorizing what you loved.

"We're going to MoMA? Em, this is too much. You didn't have to do something so extravagant-" You're rambling for someone who, in actuality, is speechless. Emily just beams at you.

"Naomi, have you heard of _The Production Line of Happiness_?"

She's toying with you, because of fucking course you've heard of it. You took quite an interest in Christopher Williams and his critique on late capitalist society and, with this exhibition in particular, the connection between photography and today's consumer culture.

"You spent way too much time in my bedroom."

"_Die Welt ist schön,_" Emily struggled out the title, but in it's broken entirety, you understand.

"_The World is Beautiful_," You translate, a little taken back.

"And _Dix-huit leçons sur la société industrielle_," You laugh that time, because she sounds bloody ridiculous, but god damnit, you can't say it wasn't impossibly cute when she tried.

"_Eighteen Lessons on Industrial Society. _Jesus fucking Christ, Em. How did you possibly plan this all?"

You're a bit breathless and this little dialogue is a bit too movie rom-com for your cynical taste, but she's standing there slightly blushed and slightly expectant, so you overlook your pessimism.

"Well, I remembered from your room. How many times I looked at those pictures at night, read the captions. Then when I looked into what was going on here today, well, Christopher Williams exhibit was- and I just knew," She shrugs,

"Fate, s'pose."

You smile, let out a breathy chuckle, and mumble under your breath. "Kismet."

* * *

The exhibit is so beautiful. You're at a loss for words, and that's okay because Emily, being an aspiring photographer, understands and appreciates your silent dissection of each piece. After what feels like years, and making sure you fully took in every single work of art, you both agree to head out. Your stomach is growling so you know Emily must be starving, as well. Of course, she's already planned where you can grab food and you both start walking towards Le Parker Meridien Hotel.

Over her 1/2 lb cheese burger, with the works, she asks you,

"So. What was your favorite piece?"

It feels like a loaded question. It shouldn't be, because you did spend so much time inspecting every photo, imagining each possible perspective, connecting. There has to be one that stuck out. But in reality, you probably spent just as much time watching Emily inspect the art, the way she would suck in her bottom lip, lightly dragging her teeth across before releasing, only to pull it back in again. The small dance she does from foot to foot, shifting her weight back and forth as she mulls over thoughts in her head. And you're drawing a blank on the actual artwork itself.

"I think they're all beautiful. Every little detail."

She smirks at you, taking in your answer, then picks back up her burger.

"Lame," she scoffs, playfully yawning at your sappy, serious demeanor, "Well I personally loved the Cutaway Model Nikon EM. I think, from a photographer's point of view-" She swats your arm and exclaims _Hey now!_ when you roll your eyes,

"From _my_ point of view, we take for granted our cameras. I mean, a few adjustments to lenses and focus and then, click - our job is done," She mimmicks holding a camera in her hand, taking your photo like she has in so many years before, "But seeing the layers of glass that all work together to produce this thing - this memory forever captured - was pretty neat. Plus, I'm a sucker for simple pieces."

Emily used to tell you all the time she loved when you would go off on tangents. Whether political, or a debate over brands of beer, she would sit back and listen and when you were finished, she would look at you with this starry eyed, content sigh, and smile. You know exactly how she felt, just then, as you sat back and listened to her.

"Like I said, beautiful."

* * *

Once the sun sets and the sweaters are pulled over your heads, Emily leads you back towards the subway. She's made plans for you two to meet up with Cook and Effy at an Irish pub called Paddywagon, back by your flat. In a way, it's a relief. The entire day spent with Emily had truly been great; a great birthday. But as the evening went on, you were hit with the sad feeling of comfort - how easy it had been for you and Emily to fall into place. Conversation flowed, laughs exchanged and brief mindless touches on the arm or the back, glances held longer than usual. It was nice, for the time being, but that uneasy ache in the pit of your stomach slowly grew. As happy as you were to be _friends_ with Emily, you could not pretend it didn't hurt - and some extra company could distract your worry.

You arrive at Paddywagon around 9:15, the muffled thump of bar music heard outside of the door. It's small, another hole-in-the-wall, but you'd prefer that over some cramped, busy lounge full of slags and Guidos. Emily leads you to the back corner of the bar and you spot your mates - with quite a few empty pints in front of Cook, which isn't entirely shocking.

"Lookey 'ere! Happy Birthday, my love!" Cook wraps you in his (fucking sweaty) arms, lifting you off the ground and kissing your forehead before releasing you to do the same to Emily.

"Thanks, mate," You plop onto the stool next to Effy, she smiles, looking up from her double vodka on the rocks. You know that's what she's ordered because of her relaxed smirk, combined with her piercing eyes - a look you've learned to distinguish from other Effy-alcohol-faces.

"Happy Birthday." She twirls a cocktail straw in her drink and winks.

"Cheers."

Cook pulls a stool between you and him for Emily, she and Effy exchange brief hellos.

"Babes, you've gotta have a Cinnamon Toast Crunch shot - knock yer fuckin' socks off, but tastes fuckin' ace!" You don't even try to complain because trying to defend yourself against Cook and alcohol is pointless. Besides, it _is_ your birthday, so _why the fuck not? _and that's excuse enough to let go, if only a little.

He orders four and announces, "Tonight, drinks are on Effy!"

"What? Eff, no. At least let me pay for mine and Naomis-"

"Emily, please. You've taken Naomi all over today, don't worry, I've got it. Besides," Effy lifts her shot glass to start her toast, "Tony showed me a few things before we left - I've started day trading, and frankly, I'm going to make a shit load."

Effy's told you nothing about what she planned to do money-wise when moving here, and you had trusted her when she said she'd get her share. So when she exclaims her career path, your look of shock and confusion is replaced with excitement and joy for your best friend. Everyone raises their shot glass and unanimously decide tonight's toast goes to your 22nd birthday.

So, you drink.

* * *

And holy shit, do you drink. The next time you look at the time it's 1:15am, and counting the various shot, whiskey, and pint glasses in front of you, you've drank at least two full glasses of _something_ every hour. And Cook was not lying about the Cinnamon Toast Crunch shot - the mixture of Fireball and RumChata has you, frankly, off your fucking face. But it is delicious, so you think, _th- the fuck not?_ and order another.

Emily had just finished playing a game of pool with Cook and Effy, tag teaming the poor bloke and schooling him immediately.

You hear him shout, "You's two are fuckin' sharks!" And zone in on the beautiful, throaty laugh drifting your way as Emily sits down beside you at the bar.

"Hey," Her voice is low and smooth, you know she's right drunk as well, and suddenly your mouth is very dry.

"Hi."

"Happy Birthday." She's circling her finger around a water ring left from her beer, and suddenly you find it fascinating watching her delicate fingers move so languidly.

"Thanks, Em. Really," It takes a few seconds to swallow your saliva and draw your eyes back to hers, "Thank you, today was perfect. You're- Cheers." Shrugging your shoulders and tearing away from the dark brown orbs, you knock back your shot. She follows suit, probably with much more grace than you, as you can feel a drip slip the corner of your mouth and fall down to your chin.

Preoccupied in scanning the counter top for a clean napkin, you suddenly feel warmth. Emily's warm hand, pressed to your cheek, her thumb swiping your bottom lip and catching the liquor before it falls. You want to say thanks, _friend,_ thank you, _mate,_ but instead you let your eyes close and remind yourself to breathe. Forcing your lids back open and taking your final look in preparation, mentally chanting your recurring motto of the night - _Why, the fuck, not?_ - You swallow hard, lock eyes with Emily, and kiss her.


	9. Splinters

**Author's Note: Thank you all for your amazing feedback, I'm so glad you guys are getting as invested in this story as I am. I know it's a little late to be on the bandwagon, with our beloved Skins all wrapped up, but I love seeing that I'm not the only one holding onto our girls/show. Viva la Naomily.**

**As always, your reviews keep me going, and I eat it up like fucking cake. Any and all criticism is appreciated. Thanks!**

**PS: Don't get too excited - I'm putting off writing the ... juicy stuff (for lack of a better word) for as long as possible. Sorry.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Skins but I love it so much I can't even think of a witty disclaimer right now.**

* * *

_Before you open your eyes, you kiss her. You feel the sun streaming in from your bedroom window, feel the mild humidity of the morning, the heat compressed between your body and hers. She rolls into your touch, your face nuzzled into her neck, pressing her back flush against you. You can't see it, but you know she's smiling. And you think, **W****e are perfect.** __**This is perfect.**_

_It took a little while to figure out, but you've finally accepted that 'perfection' in a relationship doesn't always mean sparks and passion. Sometimes, it's seeing that even when things feel just acceptable, satisfactory, that Emily is still the best you could ever get. More than you could ever imagine. She is perfect._

* * *

You kissed her. You kissed her and there were no fireworks. It wasn't a hungry, passionate, fight-for-dominance snog. It felt like home. It felt like lazy Saturday mornings cuddled in bed, like afternoon strolls through the park and holding hands and the breeze blowing Emily's bright red hair all over her face. It felt like every kiss goodnight, your ritual, followed by a steady-spoken "I love you".

A feeling so comfortable and whole, it says, "I am right here, and so are you. And that's enough," so who are you to refuse it? You'd spent over a year crying for the loss of this, searching for it in every corner - but never acting upon the search, because when it came down to it, you knew no one else was Emily. And your alcohol-influenced mind convinces you that, no, tomorrow this won't hurt. Indulge. Pretend that this is okay.

So you do.

* * *

The bar raises it's lights and you know it must be closing time. All other patrons had left over the past hours, though you hardly noticed with Emily close and nuzzled into you, lips on your lips, on your neck. Effy and Cook waved goodbye and you managed a half-assed farewell, too wrapped up in Emily's hot breath on your neck.

"Let's go back to my place."

And you nod in agreement, already scooting out of the booth you'd both settled into however many drinks ago.

You stumble out into the street and the first bite of night air hits you. A small pinch of your inebriation penetrated, but Emily's hand is so soft in yours and you missed the way her rings pressed into your fingers as they interlocked, so you follow on. Her building is unnervingly close to yours, the sober part of your brain takes note, and you attempt to shake off the ill that spills through you. _Just pretend for tonight. _

"Naomi, I can hear you thinking."

Emily giggles, her back turned to you as she fumbles with her keys in the door. You don't remember exactly how many stairs it took to reach her flat. But you think you can almost smell lavender through the wooden frame. Before you can muster a response she's got everything unlocked, and all you have to do is step inside. She helps by grabbing your hand, her eyes dark and hooded, immediately stopping the protest forming inside.

She kisses you, this time hungry and heavy, leading you back through a door. When your knees hit the end of a bed, you squeeze your eyes tight and fall backwards, pulling her down with you. You're grateful it's dark, because the image of Emily straddling you, pulling your shirt over your head quick and graceful from the years you've practiced feels like a wrench in your throat. Instantly, tongue and teeth are sucking and soothing, wearing down the lump. The involuntary moan only reinforces her.

"Fuck, Emily."

It's barely a whisper and you're not sure if it was meant as a plea for more, or for less. But her mouth finds yours and all is forgotten in her soft pull on your bottom lip, replaced with a throaty sigh.

"Take off these stupid fucking jeans."

You oblige, silently. From the rustle of the comforter and shifted weight above you, you figure Emily did the same. You're surprised to find your hands aren't shaking when they run up her thigh, pausing to tease the thin fabric line of her knickers, and swiftly pull off her top, breaking the kiss as briefly as possible before returning your lips to her neck.

You feel the vibrations in her throat, you hear the low gasp, holding your eyes tighter shut to fight down the flip of your stomach and dizziness in your head. But she says,

"Fuck, I've missed you."

And you stop. And you tell yourself not to stop, to keep kissing her, to unclasp her bra and fuck her senseless like you've done so many times before. To make beautiful, passionate fucking love to her, like so many times before.

But that's your problem - this isn't passionate love. This is a drunk shag and you've let yourself pretend everything was okay, that your heart wasn't splintering with every touch. You pretended the security you used to feel still existed, took sanctuary in your knowledge of loving Emily Fitch. You thought seeing her 'cheekie' bum-hugging panties - always a solid color, always lace - would be a safety net. The fact that you knew if she had any intention of _this_ happening, she would wear the red pair matched with her red and black lace demi-bra. And if you weren't so fucking, incredibly sad in that moment, you would've chuckled when you found that you were right.

But instead, you've frozen underneath her, breathing raggedly against her neck. She sits up and sighs. You don't realize your eyes are closed until you feel her thumb running against your cheek, collecting moisture you weren't aware had escaped.

"Naomi."

If it was possible to sink through to the Earth's core, you'd do it. But clenching your eyes shut so hard your face grimaces will have to suffice.

"Naomi, please," The weight above you shifts, and beside you the bed sinks in.

"I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Naoms. Would you like your top back?"

Emily's voice is soothing, low and quiet beside you, close but not too close. You sniffle and nod. You open your eyes only to make right your shirt and pull it on.

"I should-"

"Please, don't go?" It's a plea; you can hear the mild desperation.

"Naomi, it's late. We just sleep, we'll talk about it in the morning-" You stiffen visibly, against your will, "Or not at all. Just, please, stay for the night?"

You unclench your jaw and untuck the bedsheets from beneath you. Emily lifts her arm, and you shift to your side, closer into her chest. Because you never stood a chance to fight this, and you truthfully don't want to. Sleeping next to Emily is all you've ever wanted. You can pretend, just a little longer.

* * *

You wake up in a panic, squinting in an unfamiliar room dimly lit by the first peaks of dawn. Looking around, it's quite bare, white walls, boring desk, boring lamp. The photos taped in a perfect square on one wall stand out, peroxide blonde hair filling most of the tiny squares. The heavy sigh next to you confirms the rapid uneasiness spreading as you scanned your location. And though you'd almost forgotten how fucking beautiful Emily looks asleep, hair tousled and splayed on the pillow, blanket tucked under her chin, you absolutely cannot stay any longer. The slow splintering you'd endured over the night has ultimately led to your heart breaking, all over again.

So you leave.


	10. HONY

**Author's Note: Hello again! I know, it's been a hot minute. I'm quite swamped with work lately, and actually have been cast in a few films/tv/plays. But, you all left such lovely reviews that I felt necessary to get something out to you. Hope it doesn't disappoint. I have to say, I've been waiting anxiously to write this chapter, the idea stuck in my head. If you aren't familiar with Humans of New York, maybe look into it for a little reference to Naomi's work/this chapter.**

**Thank you all for being the best readers/writers/fans out there, all your words mean so much to me. So, with that said, please review, favorite, follow, etc. Because your support is what fuels me.**

**PS: If anyone knows anything about the Fear of Water movie release date - PLEASE let me know! I have been waiting and looking for what feels like forever. I need to get my Lily Loveless fix. Thanks!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Skins except in my dreams.**

* * *

_"And what if we don't work out?" Despite your day spent together, full of kisses and kind words and longful stares, Emily always feared for the end of you._

_"If this- If **we** don't work, well, I'll chalk it up to a great experience. Beautiful memories."_

_Your honesty didn't seem to settle her. But really, you were freshly eighteen, turning legal three weeks before and Emily still a few months behind with her late summer birthday, so frankly the talk of 'if' instead of 'when' and 'forever' instead of 'now' scared the shit out of you._

_"Emily, look at me," You brush the flashy red hair away from her face, nuzzled deep into her pillow - your pillow, except Emily had spent the first month of holiday in your house, bed, shower, kitchen, so you silently surrendered most of your belongings to her._

_She doesn't move her head, just gazes up at you from your position on your side, propped on your elbow, chin in palm._

_"Five years from now, you'll be this hot shot photographer, a bloody household name with models' panties littering your doorstep," She smiles and rolls her eyes, also a signature belonging of yours that, over time, has grown to belong to Emily as well._

_"And, hopefully, I'll be, I dunno. Making a difference. Not exactly sure how, but - Somehow." Emily's eyes squint as she smiles up at you, a look almost always attributed to discussion of your strong passion for justice._

_"Either way, Ems, where ever we are, whatever we're doing, it will all happen because of this," You cup her cheek and brush your thumb along her jawline,_

_"Because of us." You smile confidently, allowing her a moment to take in your sincerity before lowering your stance to her level against the bed, and kiss her._

* * *

Going to work on Monday was your saving grace. Despite the emotional tornado that whirled over the weekend, you found a bit of sanity in walking through the glass double doors, setting your coffee on the perfectly positioned coaster, and reading the numerous tales told by strangers to be assigned to your web zine. There was a hefty stack, you knew Brandon must have been busy the past few days. With summer approaching, school letting out and vacations beginning, the city was quickly filling with a plethora of new faces - all different cultures and beliefs and stories. What usually would be a nightmare of a week was perfectly okay to you because it (for the most part) distracted you from the events of your birthday.

By 10:15 on Thursday you'd read through 3/4th of the pages, separating each into their proper category of romance, family, children, career, and micro fashion (your personal favorite). At one point you stumble upon a photograph of a woman looking to be in her late 60's, dressed in flowing garments, incredibly bohemian. Her story is of her passion for dance and being in the Chorus Line when she was just 17 - nothing too particular except the background; Typical busy New York street, littered with yellow cabs and three piece suits and bicycles. One bike caught your eye in the far left corner - almost cut off the page as if the owner had sped into frame just as the shutter clicked.

"Cook!" You scoff out loud, noting that the two girls in his buggy look absolutely petrified. He's pedaling while standing, brow furrowed, mid-shake of his fist and you bet from the way his mouth is wide open and snarled that he's shouting "Oi!" at the taxi next to him. You quickly swipe up on your phone and snap a photo, zooming in on him and his customers, and send it into a group message to 'James', 'Eff', and 'Em- Not Emily. Just, Cook and Effy.

_:BLOODY PRICELESS! _Comes Cook's reply, soon followed by Effy with her simple,

_:Jesus Christ._

Smiling to yourself, you quickly respond,

**:I see enough of you at home, tosser. I dont need you in my work.**

Then before putting your phone away, you add,

**:PS, I think those girls shat themselves.**

And put your phone back in your purse.

* * *

Lunch is quiet, you've learnt of a cheap and quick little deli around the corner from your office and have gone there for a few of your breaks now, deciding to do the same today. Grabbing a pre-packed turkey and swiss sandwich (peeling off the swiss) and cup of water, you find a shaded table outside and sit. There's three texts unopened on your phone:

_:I have that effect on gurls ;]_ - Cook. Disgusting.

_:Disgusting._ - Thank you, Effy.

And a text not in your household group message; A text from Emily. She hadn't attempted to contact you, at first burning a searing pain into your heart for being so blind to think that she actually missed _you_ and not just fucking you until you noticed all week the constant buzzing of both Effy and Cook's phones, the quick read-and-reply before you could even ask who it was, and the sideways glances filled with guilt and empathy in both your mate's eyes. So your burn cooled, your rational side kicking in and reassuring you that, no, she wasn't just using you. Emily just knew you well enough to not press you directly. She was giving you time, the one thing you always asked for, and the one thing she always gave. Even until the very end.

The text said, simply,

_:I'm here._

* * *

You cut your lunch short, heading back to the office 20 minutes before your hour was up. The time sitting on your hands while you relaxed during break was anything but relaxing - constantly locking and unlocking your mobile until you made a stand, literally, and decided to dive back into the distraction of work.

There was a new pile of shots on your desk, comparably small, most likely just taken Monday to Wednesday. Since you were finished with the weekend's group you decided to add these in; Give an exceptionally hearty web release for Monday.

The stack went fairly quickly, though you were right about the new faces. Most stories were obvious tourists, some Brandon noted the accent of each interviewee. You wanted so desperately to casually scan over the one noted: 'English'. But even in photographs you were drawn to her. Separating the article from the unread pile, you cleared a space on your desk to lay flat the page.

She was standing next to a brick wall, bright greens and reds and blues of graffiti covering most of the space. She had her elbow resting on her hip, camera in hand, as if he'd stopped her mid-shot. Her hair was up in a messy ponytail, _"Do you know how hard it is to focus on an image with hair falling in your face?!" _She would say. It always drove you mad when she wore that white tank top, like so in the photo, with her flannel - no, _your_ flannel tied hastily around her waist. She looked sad, almost. Sad, a bit hopeful; Apologetic. You read the article, with the photographer's notes at the top:

* * *

_She said, "I'm a photographer too. Do you work for anyone?" I asked her why she came to New York._

"I love a girl."

"And why do you love her?"

"She forced me to be brave. She taught me to fight for what I want and what I love. She's the bravest girl I know."

"Where is she now?" _She smiled sadly and cocked her head._

"She's here."

"But not with you?"

"But not with me."

"Is there anything you'd like to say to her?"

"I'm glad you asked. If she were to see this, I'd say, you were right. Five years from now, where we both are- It happened because of us. I'm so proud of you. I love you. Come home."


	11. Habits

**Author's Note: Gosh, you guys are really great. I'm glad to see some new readers as well as the lovely returning fans. **

**Like I mentioned in the last chap's A/N, work is truly crazy right now and I'm happy to report that I've been cast in a professional production of The Addams Family Musical - the downside being that my days are practically 14 hours of non-stop going, 5 days of the week. Regardless, truly love this story and I'm constantly itching to update. **

**I will say, I had a lot of difficulty writing this chapter. Nothing seemed to exactly... fit. I'm finding walls blocking, what I feel, are important breaks in the story. If anyone would like to Beta or even just pal up and help out with some writing or reading, feel free to private message me or mention it in the reviews. Which, always, are lovely.**

* * *

The answer is clear to you.

And you never had much of a chance, really. From the very beginning Emily consumed you, despite your best efforts against her, which only seemed to add fuel to her fire. And, Christ, was she ever a fire. Even emulating it in her appearance, at age 16 with shocking red hair. Even now, at age 21 no longer needing to display her inner flame, but still the duller, darker hue of red posed just as dangerous, if not more - her embers ever present, waiting to catch.

When Emily left, she took your _home._ She burned the house to the ground, leaving you to sleep alone among the ashes. But, you were never one for material things. And you know now, that without her, the house was sort of rubbish anyways.

The good thing about losing everything is the opportunity to start over. Replace what you didn't like, work to recover the important stuff.

Emily could burn all your shit. She was what's important.

* * *

"Is this to be published?"

You're refraining from smiling. Or, trying to, at least. You asked to meet her at your usual lunch cafe to scold, to reprimand for mixing your personal life into your career. Honestly, you just wanted to see her. But Emily has caught on and is now relaxing into her chair, the sun peering down, making her squint one eye with an adorable lop-sided grin.

"Up to you."

She's cheeky, confident and expectant. One thing you always loved most about her. Little Emily Fitch, who was no more than a mere shadow of Katie Fitch for roughly half their lives, could be so _brazen._

From the first moment you met her, through coincidence you both were hiding out from some shit party full of underage teens. You, not finding anyone worthy of your level of intellectual conversation and Emily, too shy to converse with anyone (and left high and dry by Katie), both took refuge in a tree house in the garden.

For a girl who was so small, so meek and fragile, the power behind her unexpected kiss knocked the wind out of you. And when she pulled away, you could confirm that it was, in fact, _you_ who was shaking, not her. Emily just looked at you with her crooked smile, eyes blazing something fierce.

You had full intentions of holding out, taking small, cautious steps towards anything that was _Emily - _knowing too well no matter how firm you would try to plant your feet, she was a hurricane.

So, maybe it was the way the sun bounced off her auburn hair, your fingers twitching against your thighs in ache to touch. Maybe it was seeing your flannel tied around her waist in the photograph, now laid between you two on the table. Maybe it was the article written underneath, and her text message that in two words, said it all. Maybe it was the burning in her eyes, no longer shadowed by a fringe like in the tree house, but still the same passion. Probably, it was a combination of everything.

You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest (adding your best scowl, just for good measure), and say,

"You're such, a fucking tit," To which Emily lets out a pleasant chuckle, only cut short by you leaning over the tiny round top and pressing your lips against hers.

* * *

You agree to meet Emily at her flat after work - A small step, you think, in moving forward. Given your heavily inebriated state the first (and last) time you'd been there, this time should feel new to you. The thought is scary, fucking terrifying, that, but somewhere between your hasty retreat from her bed and your fleeting wave as Emily departed at lunch, you overcame that sense of betrayal.

The answer became clear to you the night of your birthday. When old habits die hard, and kissing her felt like every puzzle piece had fallen into place, it rang clear.

You could never truly let go of Emily. Even in the pain of her absence, she was there. Her black bar of soap with flecks of wheat grains, perched on your shower ledge. Her guilty pleasure of buying tea boxes, stacked in the pantry - every flavor imaginable, all for a different mood. You clung to your rituals of Saturday morning laundry and Tuesday night TV shows. You continued to fold socks and sleeping briefs that were clearly hers.

What changed all of this from heart-breakingly pathetic to strong-willed, hopeful fate, was when you discovered that Emily held on, too.

In her new apartment - her apartment that was to rid her life of _you -_ did you feel a pang of anger when you noticed all your letters, neatly bound together, and opened? Yes. And upon leafing through a few, you noticed the same return address, only some replacing your _'N. Campbell' _with an _'E.S'_ or _'Cook' _above.

But then she just smiled at you sheepishly, and shrugged,

"I couldn't stand not knowing," And when her eyes cast downward, you felt her regret hit you square in the chest like a brick.

She mumbled, "Curiosity killed the cat, s'pose."

So you left the letters, partly ashamed for the desperation held inside each envelope, and partly relieved for no longer being in that position.

When you excused yourself to the loo and your organic, herbal conditioner bottle sat next to her purple, over-priced one, you swallowed down your smile and decided against mentioning it and heckling her.

And after planting yourselves to the couch, the tension, the uncomfortable silences, and the inevitable questions were all answered, until Emily asked you again.

"Naomi," It was almost inaudible. You set down your plate of lo mein noodles, swallowing your mouth full and side glancing her.

"So now, _really_, where do we-"

"Jesus Christ, Emily, I-" When you see the panic wash over her face, you find it necessary to place a hand on her knee, to comfort.

"I'm yours. I always have been, I always will be. I think, maybe, we're ready. Yeah?"

You squeeze her leg for good measure, and she nods, though she pauses to wipe her sudden tear-stained cheek on her shoulder blade. But then when her eyes lock with yours, her lips turned up in a genuine, blissful smile, you can't contain your matching expression as she says,

"Yeah. I think so, too."

* * *

It was she who initiated the first kiss of your somewhat 'new' relationship and, really, you needed it to be that way. You felt you had made up, a bit, for all of the chasing Emily did in your younger years. Though, you can't help but imagine what your angsty, teenage self would have said if she, _you_, knew that you'd travel to fucking New York City, USA, for that persistent red head.

That is until you hear that low, husky,

"Naomi?" Efficiently snapping you out of your thoughts. You focus in on Emily's hesitant face, bottom lip tucked under her teeth, backing away from its position in between _your_ teeth just a few seconds ago. You manage out an attentive grumble of sorts, a "Hm?" or "Wuh?" Before your brain has fully snapped out of it's snogging fog.

"Where'd you go?"

She's fidgeting with the bottom of her jumper, and you think, _Old habits do die hard._ Things like Emily's nervous ticks - threading fingers through sweater hems, or her hair, or simply twiddling one hand with the other. The involuntary moan that escapes her the first time you gently pull on her bottom lip with your own, and her automatic response of running her tongue along your upper lip. The way you always, _always_ have opened your eyes first upon breaking contact. And the satisfaction that comes for the split second you see her hazy, love-drunk expression before her eyes flutter open. And even then, the unabashed smile she rewards you with, knowing just as well as you, that you take that moment.

"Just, well - Got an image of how I would've responded at say, 17, if someone had told me this is where I'd be at 22, not to mention how I got here..."

Emily scoffs, and you roll your eyes, tutting at her open acknowledgement of your younger years.

"Careful, Naoms - That reaction right there looked hauntingly similar to the one I'd get when sneaking out the college washroom with you. Channeling your inner teen, are we?"

Her raised eyebrow and cocky grin only stands for a few seconds before she squeals, you having lunged across the sofa, pinning her underneath you.

Leaning devastating close to Emily's lips, smirking when you hear her breath hitch in her throat, you whisper,

"Haven't you heard of a dine'n'dash?" Before quickly sitting up to avoid the _thwack_directed towards your bicep.

"Cheeky," Emily's devilish grin and darkened eyes wipe the smirk off your face instantly, her hands wrap stealthily around your neck and pull you downwards to press flush against her chest.

"You love it," You manage to rebut before succumbing to her lips so close to yours.


	12. The Sea

**Author's Note: Hello lovelies! At last, our beloved pair is together. Worth the wait? This chap has been poking at the back of my head for a little while now, so I figured I'd give it a shot. **

**PS - I say it every time but I cannot overstate how much I love all your reviews and seeing the new followers getting just as sucked in as me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.**

**Warning: You may get whiplash from the constant past/present switch overs.**

* * *

You come home and set your bag on the table, like you've done every Monday through Thursday for the last two years.

"Babe?" You echo into the flat, like you've done every Monday through Thursday, for the last two years. But today, it seems void of your honey-haired girlfriend. You check your phone, simultaneously kicking off your trainers and sliding them towards the front door, when you see the text you suspected was waiting.

_:Gone out with Cook. Don't wait up. Love you_

"Fucking perfect."

Through irritation you have to think, _what's there even to do on a fucking Tuesday?_ But she's with Cook, who you've long learned will find something to do. Regardless of the time or day.

And this is how it's been lately. You wake up at the crack of dawn, Naomi grumbling at your alarm and half-consciously swatting you while you half-consciously swat the clock to shut it up. Shower. Profusely apologize at the noise when you blow dry your hair. Do your best to find matching socks (or ones that can at least pass for matching). And go to school.

Naomi's laundromat job helps with some of the bills. But Naomi hates her laundromat job. And Naomi can't drive, so you're constantly rearranging your schedule to drop her off on the moped. Therefor, Naomi rarely _goes_ to her laundromat job.

Instead, you've recently found yourself entering your house through squinted eyes, a fog of smoke stagnant and filling every inch of the place. You bite your tongue, lock your jaw, greet Naomi (and usually Cook and Effy), and retreat to the shower. You'll feel better, you think, once you've washed off the funk of your long school day. You'll scrub away the grime of negative, harboring thoughts until your skin is raw. Towards the end, you'll just cry. Not returning until either the water turns icy, or you hear the front door close and quiet settle into the flat.

Once you've set in for the night, going to coursework or television or both to occupy you, the bubbling anger seems to subside. Your eyes will wander over the collage of photos on the east wall of the living room - Polaroids meticulously lined up and spaced perfectly between each other (on account of Naomi and her minor OCD for things like that), the chalkboard gifted from Gina and the brief notes left between you and Naomi, _'you are my lobster!' 'I love you as much as cheese!'. _

It's easy for you to bury the unease, if only temporary, each day. When in your photography class, screen zoomed in on one of the thousands of photos you've taken of her, of your life with her. And it all looks so poetic - Naomi asleep, shirtless and rolled towards the bedroom window, blinds open so you can see the light leaking through, illuminating the goosebumps on her back and the wavy tousles of her hair. Naomi deep in thought, a warm, dim lamp shining on her thick black framed reading glasses, perched on the edge of her strong sloped nose. A book cracked opened in her lap and her index finger tracing the pages ever-so delicately. A night out, Naomi and Effy smoking outside of a pub. Effy braces herself against the crumbling brick wall by hitching her foot up, leaning back and blowing smoke into the air. Naomi rests on her side, shoulder bearing all her weight as she looks at her friend, faces streaked with greens and blues of the neon signs in the window above.

When you get time away from her - which lately, with your studies and her increased desire to run from all responsibility, is more often than not - you mentally weigh the pro's and the con's of life without Naomi, and usually, the cards fall in her favor.

She'll stumble in at a pitch black hour of the night, cursing with every step as her intoxication forgets the layout of your house. You always wait until she's reached the bedroom door before acknowledging her, and even then it's more so to protect the fish tank on her nightstand from being knocked over (again) and less because you actually care for her well being.

Two years ago, all you cared about was Naomi's well being.

Once she's stripped of her bar-stenched clothing and under the covers, after reassuring you at least three times that she isn't going to puke, Naomi will sloppily rub your back, kiss your shoulder blades, nip at your neck. You'll give up on getting sufficient sleep, and remove your knickers from around your knees because she's too drunk to finish undressing you. And, even though you're secretly furious with her, you can't deny you've always loved having drunk sex with Naomi.

When you say, "I love you," she'll say, "I love you, too," and she's shit faced, so you won't bring up the fact she only ever adds the 'too' when something is wrong.

The next morning, when you leave for class, you'll say it again.

"I love you," You'll kiss her forehead.

"I love you," She'll mumble it back, but you take count that this is the fifth time this week that she's swallowed immediately after responding. A tell-tale sign, she once informed you in the beginning, that she's not being entirely honest.

It's during one night, while Naomi is recklessly getting hammered and you've stayed home and finished your coursework for the evening, that you decide to browse the web for photography opportunities. And you see it. An internship in New York City with Milk Studios.

You read over the credentials. You qualify for submission. You know your portfolio is impressive.

And all it would take is one email, one letter and a click of a link to your photography; This could be yours.

You briefly ponder you and Naomi living in New York - in a tiny, bare essentials apartment, you being a part of a critically acclaimed studio, Naomi doing - what, exactly?

Suddenly, you'd rather be swallowed whole by the millions of inhabitants in the City That Never Sleeps than to drown in Bristol with Naomi as your anchor.

So you apply.

* * *

"Alright, then?" She calls from your fire escape, smoke trailing off her lips.

"Fine, sorry - what were you saying?"

Naomi flicks her fag over the railing, crouching back through the window and heading towards the couch.

"It could just be my optimism my, _chimerical_ mind-" She draws out the adjective and your throat goes dry.

The word is ugly, her emphasis sounding like Mrs. Doubtfire in no way sexy, but you know she chose that word specifically for you. For a night like this, rebuilding trust and affirming devotion.

A word that you explained in passing, upon looking through an old scrapbook in your mum's closet, when she stopped the page from turning because of a newspaper clipping.

_There was a thumbnail sized photo with a tiny article printed beneath - A few thrown in sentences about the local elementary school's spelling bee._

_"Oh my fucking god. Is that you?" Naomi picked up the book, squinting for a sharper look at the old, blurry photo of a girl in yellow overalls, barking out a satisfied 'Ha!' and turning pointedly towards you._

_"I'll have you know I won," Your line of defense doesn't penetrate her snarky grin and arched eyebrow._

_"What was your word?"_

_"Chimerical. It means highly unrealistic-"_

_"Wildly fanciful, yes, I know," She's cocky. You roll your eyes because, of course she knows._

_"This is really, rather adorable." The book closes as she plants a kiss on your cheek, backing out of your mum's closet, scrapbook tucked safely under her arm._

"- But I feel like I can see the Statue of Liberty from your fire escape. Is that so?"

You stifle your laugh with your hand clamped over your mouth,

"No, Naoms, you can't see the Statue of Liberty from here. Jesus, you'd think you just moved yesterday!" She scowls, opening and closing her mouth like a fish in need of oxygen.

"Well, excuse me, Miss fucking America, I'm not entirely familiar with my surroundings yet, okay?"

Your laughter has calmed, mostly because Naomi's mastered bitch-face was always sufficient in shutting you up (and de-robing you).

"You were always a bit shit at geography."

She scoots in next to you on the couch, releasing a sigh as she bunches her jumper sleeves up to her elbows.

"I want to go sometime. Will you take me?" You don't lift your head from it's resting position atop your knees, only squeezing them tighter to contain the quickened pounding in your chest.

"Of course, if you'd like."

"I would."

It feels like a promise. It feels like picking up your best friend from the airport after months of distance. Like the squeezing of a hand intertwined for reassurance - the re-opening of a love you'd missed so dearly. Suddenly, the prospect of Naomi as an anchor seems impossible, and you realize: maybe she never was. If you are the ship, then Naomi must be the sea - dangerous, relentless, constantly pulling and pushing, but without her you're nothing. She keeps you afloat. And in return you get to experience the beauty of the world, together.

You hear Naomi shaking the pack of cigarettes in her sweater pocket and you release your legs from your clutches to join her. She offers her hand to steady you as you climb through the window, as if this isn't _your_ apartment and your window ledge and fire escape that you've spent hundreds of nights perched on - but you take it anyway, because you've always loved how soft Naomi's hands are, and the slenderness of her fingers as they wrap around yours.

When she's sat next to you, jumper pulled back down to wrap over her hands except her two cigarette-holding fingertips, you're hit with her first exhale of smoke. And though you've never been a heavy smoker, or nearly as addicted as her or (God forbid) Effy, the combination of her vanilla body spray and tobacco is immediately deemed your favorite scent, ever.

"There's so many things I want to see with you," She turns her head to look at you, dragging in on her fag in wait of a response.

"There's so many places I want to share with you."

* * *

**Post-note: I just have to ask - did anyone catch any musical references? I couldn't resist. Also, how do you all feel about Emily's POV? It brought a nice break of the Campbell mindset for me, but if it didn't work for you guys then I would refrain from switching it up now and then.**

**Until next time!**


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